


Fuckaround Shit

by teethwax



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teethwax/pseuds/teethwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hasn't slept in forty hours and it's too loud under his skin.  He's got a beer and a new cracked tooth, one of the front ones, but Ginger’s watching him like he’s Miss Tits America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuckaround Shit

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Fuckaround Shit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483543) by [Virgil (alucard1771)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/Virgil)



Crash does a lot of things Rust would never do.

He enjoys himself, for one – he's up for any drug, any fight. Crash says crazy shit to deadly people, but he says it so drunk and carefree they almost don’t notice. Crash lets things go. Fucks a girl once in a while but not too well, lets the news sneak around. 

And he lets Ginger crowd up close to him, lets Ginger rasp in his ear, snorts off the web of his hand. Rust reads the signs, and Crash waits. Stays fun. 

 

4 am, nine months in: things shift. Eleven days since Miles okayed the shipments with Norte del Valle and Rust's overdue to meet Morales, give his report. He hasn't slept in forty hours and it's too loud under his skin. He's got a beer and a new cracked tooth, one of the front ones, but Ginger’s watching him like he’s Miss Tits America. 

Ginger's third-generation biker trash, good with an engine and better with a knife. Gets himself booked for domestic violence every few years, stays conspicuous with women but looks at men. It's an ache Rust's seen before - one he can work his fingers into.

“What you got?” he asks, low, and it’s a question he’s asked Ginger a hundred times – the easiest riddle in the world, the answer's always _a high_ – but this time it’s a different color, just a little. Knocks up against that thing in Ginger that he wants to hide. 

Ginger skims a glance around. Rust does too: Miles is hip deep in some weird pussy and Beem's off somewhere, probably in search of pool. Mitch and a pack of guys are out front throwing bottles at passing lights. 

“C’mon,” Ginger says, and Crash nods. They skate.

 

Down a flight of stairs they're out of reach, out of earshot, and it's too late to change his mind. Halfway down the hallway he gets a bump of something high-pitched and sweet enough to make his hand shake on Ginger's wrist. 

The first open door is storage - kegs, mopheads, boxes of soap - and when they get inside Ginger puts a hand at the base of Rust's throat, pushes until his back hits the wall. Some old hurt roars up inside Rust, some hunger. He's half-hard and he's got so many things to drown. 

"Shit, Crash," Ginger says, and Rust yanks him in. 

They fought with bottles once and it tastes about the same. Gravel and saliva, numb knuckles and the hush before a hit. Ginger says something under the noise in Rust's head and sucks a burn into his throat, makes this low rough sound. Crash wants to eat that sound, he wants Ginger to fuck him, he wants them to make each other bleed. That's the good thing about Crash: how much punishment he can take.

The whole world's bruises and his hips jerk and Crash says “Come _on_ , motherfucker,” and Ginger’s coming on. He's wrenching at Crash's belt, working his hands inside Crash’s jacket like he’ll find something besides an asshole in last week's shirt. He shoves a thigh between Rust's and pins him to the wall and Crash or Rust or somebody loves that fucking thigh, grinds on it desperately, shudders at Ginger's bite. “Fuck,” Crash chokes out, and there’s more somewhere in his mouth but they don't need more. 

They fight Ginger's pants open and Ginger’s a shithead but he smells like a thunderstorm and he fucks against Rust dirty and hot and mean. Draws blood at his collarbone. Gets a handful of his hair. “Christ,” he says, “you feel-” but Rust doesn't want to know. He gets a hand around Ginger's cock and strokes him hard enough to hurt, wrings noises out of him until Ginger shakes and pants into his neck.

His shirt's ridden up and Ginger's come is so hot on his stomach it might scar, and Ginger's growling something and grabbing him and Rust comes like a blow to the head, like arterial spray on a new white sheet. Licks his fingers - might as well. “Fuck, Crash,” Ginger says. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

He puts his hand on Rust’s chest where Crash’s heart is still jolting around. Sentimental as hell, for Ginger. 

 

There's a couple hints at sunrise, up in a high window. Rust's a little loose in the knees as he climbs the stairs, and he's lost his lighter somewhere on the floor but Ginger's got a match. 

Sentiment is good: it means Ginger has something to lose. It means Crash has backup, has value.

He won't be under too much longer. He can do this again.


End file.
